Future Unknown
by emn1936
Summary: He didn't know what their future held. But he knew in her, he had found not just a wife, but a partner to share it with.


A/N: So, I more or less found episode 1x04 to be pretty much perfection. But my brain kept reworking a couple of scenes and I've learned the only way to get those ideas out of my head is to get them down "on paper". Not sure I got their voices right. Demelza, in particular, is a challenge to write and get the pattern of her speech correct.

Future Unknown

He stepped quietly into the room, sinking onto a chair near the bed to slip boots and stockings from his feet. Setting them aside, he stood and stretched his arms high above his head, feeling and hearing vertebrae snapping back into place with a series of satisfying clicks.

Stripping his shirt off, he tossed it over the back of the chair and padded on bare feet to the fireplace.  
Crouching, he stirred the glowing coals with a poker before adding kindling to build the fire back to a small blaze.

A murmur of sound drew his attention and still on his haunches, he turned to the woman occupying his bed. _Girl_ , he corrected himself silently. Rising from his crouched position, he crept to the bed, his gaze raptly studying her now familiar features. A smattering of freckles dotted the pale skin stretched over her nose and cheeks and her hair was a mop of tangled cinnamon curls. She lay on her side and one of her hands was stretched toward the empty expanse of mattress awaiting him. She had taken to wearing one of his shirts to bed and the too large garment drooped, revealing the creamy skin of one shoulder. The sight of her clad in his discarded clothing stirred something primal and passionate. Lust and desire curled within him and he clenched his fingers into tight fists at his side, resisting the urge to stroke the flesh he knew to be soft and inviting.

 _But I could foresee that by marrying my kitchen maid I'd scare all I'd look to for capital._

His words from earlier that day played on a loop in his head and he knew he had not been entirely truthful. Alone, he could admit that his biggest regret lay not in the woman he took to wife, but in his own selfish choices.

Closing his eyes, he scrubbed one hand over his brow, agitated fingers scraping through the dark curls to link behind his head. Pressing his forearms against his ears, he tucked his chin against his chest and heaved out a weary sigh.

He tried – every day since his return from war – to better himself. He fancied that the young man who had cared only about his own wants and pleasures had died on the battlefield and born in his place was a man who shouldered his responsibilities and make sound decisions for his own future and for the futures of those dependent upon him. He did not always succeed and the obvious proof of his slip from grace slumbered innocently on, unaware of the emotions roiling within him.

Rounding the bed, he eased himself onto the mattress and careful not to awaken her, he curled onto his side to face her. He ghosted a finger over the hand stretched toward him, noting the short nails, the work-roughened skin, and the fresh burn marring a knuckle.

In those first weeks and months after bringing her to Nampara she had become a growing fascination for him. With his return to Cornwall, his life had been a seemingly endless series of losses and setbacks and she had quietly and stealthily infiltrated his world to become the brightest part of his day. In spite of the harshness of her upbringing, she glowed with an innate joy and he was drawn to her light as to a beacon cutting through the bleakness his life had become.

She had made him smile again and in his selfishness he believed that he had reverted to his former self – taking her to his bed with only a dismissive thought for the consequences. She, an innocent, and he, a man ten years her senior.

He had hated the slowly dawning realization of what so many were whispering behind their backs; hated that he had been so transparent in his desire of her. He had hated her for being so lovely in her borrowed finery and yet at the same time seeming so young – a girl playing dress-up. Had hated himself for the lust curling low in his belly and the guilt had him lashing out like a wounded animal, drawing tears from her.

Had hated his weakness in allowing his desire and need for her to overcome his better judgment.

He had come home that evening emotionally exhausted – feeling impotent and useless after failing to save a boy from what seemed tantamount to a death sentence. So when she reappeared a few moments after his hasty retreat, his need for her was a fire beneath his skin, roaring to life with the knowledge that he was not alone in his hunger and from that moment there was no turning back.

And after?

He had told himself that marrying her was the right thing. The thought of sending her back in shame to her vile excuse of a father was abhorrent to him. But the real truth was that in the moment he had realized that she had run from him, he had understood that he could not, would not, give her up.

The rash impetuosity of his choices were leading now to his social and financial ruin. And though he had told himself that by marrying her he was saving her from disgrace, he knew he had instead yoked this bright, young clever girl to his sinking ship.

'Forgive me,' he thought. 'For I fear I've led us both down a wretched path.'

Her lashes fluttered open and with a quiet smile tipping up the corners of her lips, Demelza greeted him.

"Ross," she breathed sleepily.

"I woke you," he whispered apologetically. "Go back to sleep."

"Tis late," she noted with a glance over his shoulder at the clock on the fireplace. "Where have y'been?"

"At the mine meeting with Zacky and Henshawe."

"Till this hour? 'Tis well past dark!"

"It is always dark in the mines," he reminded her. "And no, I've been in my study the last few hours going through some papers."

"Have y'eaten?" She levered up onto one elbow and her shirt gaped open revealing the high, silken curve of one breast.

He hurriedly looked away and threw one arm over his eyes. "I've no appetite."

"Oh, now. Ye must have. Y'didn't come home for the noon meal." She reached toward the foot of the bed for her wrap. "I'll just run down t'the kitchen and fetch ye something."

He felt her move toward the edge of the mattress and his free hand shot out. Wrapping strong fingers around her wrist, he lowered his other arm from his face and pulled her down to his side.

"I'm fine," he grunted and with a gentle tug, urged her to rest her head on his shoulder. She complied readily and nestled against him but she was stiff-limbed and her hand fluttered for a moment, as if unsure of where to let it come to rest before eventually curling it against her breast. He knew she had heard the harsh note underlying his words and sensed his disquiet and seeking to put her at ease, he laid his hand on her head, winnowing his fingers through her curls, gently loosening each tangle he encountered.

He set up a steady rhythm, combing through her hair and then lightly trailing his fingers along the shallow groove of her spine, drawing a tiny shiver from her each time the pads of his fingers circled the hollow at the small of her back before reversing the journey. After a long minute or two, she relaxed her limbs and rubbed her cheek affectionately against the crisp hairs on his chest, her hand spreading open against his abdomen, her fingers idly tracing over each ridge of sinewy muscle hidden beneath his taut skin, the firelight gleaming dully off the thin gold band on her third finger.

They lay thusly for long moments with no words passing between them. Unable to turn his mind off, Ross stared at a stain on the ceiling, wondering where he would find the money to patch a leaky roof.

"Can't ye sleep?" Demelza's voice startled him when she suddenly broke the long silence. He shook his head back and forth and his hair rasping against the linen covered pillow gave the only sound to his answer.

She stacked her hands on his chest and propped her chin upon them. "And ye won't tell me your troubles?" She peeped at him through her lashes and rode the rise and fall of his chest as he blew out a long breath.

"Is it the mine?" she ventured cautiously.

He shrugged and sighed, going quiet again for a long moment.

"It's you." He finally admitted and pushed a tumble of curls away from her forehead.

"Me?" she asked with startled look. "What've I done wrong?"

"Nothing. You've done nothing wrong." He pinched the thumb and forefinger of his free hand against the bridge of his nose.

"I want you." The words burst from him like a confession torn from deep within. "I'm sorry," he told her hoarsely. "I want you and I can't stop."

Her brows drew together, a confused frown marring the smooth skin of her brow.

"I be your wife, Ross…"

He knew she did not understand. How could she? He realized that some part of him had thought that in having her, he would slake his thirst for her, but instead it only served to further whet his appetite. He wanted her – beyond reason – and _that_ – that lack of self-control was what had set them on this path.

And yet, she _was_ his wife and he her husband…

He slid his hand behind her neck, urging her down to meet his kiss and her hair tumbled around their faces blotting out everything around them. He crushed his mouth to hers nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth and when she opened her mouth in a startled gasp, his tongue plunged in to tangle with hers. They tore apart only when their lungs were about to burst and when he rolled her onto her back, her legs parted, instinctively cradling the hard press of his hips against her own.

He ran his mouth over the arched column of her throat, scraped his teeth over the smooth curve of her shoulder. His hands fumbled with the hem of her shirt, shoving the fine linen material upward.

"Off," he grunted and she obediently raised her arms over his head, an eager assistant anxious to help him achieve his goal. He tossed the shirt aside and she wrapped her arms around his neck and he felt lust pool low in his belly at the rapturous expression on her face as she sought her own pleasure – brushing the tips of her breasts against the crisp mat of hair covering his chest.

Groaning, his mouth sought hers again in a wet and sloppy tangle of lips and tongues. He cupped her breasts in his hands, enjoying the small, plump weight against his fingers before lowering his mouth to one. He heard her gasp, felt her arch against him when his tongue curled around a nipple, drawing it to peak before turning his attention to the other.

He was relentless, making love to her with hands and teeth and tongue. His passion, once ignited, had a desperate quality and he knew by the sound of her gasps and the tensing of her hands on his shoulders that she sensed, but did not understand, his turmoil.

Her heart was hammering against the wall of her chest and he paused, pressing his ear between her breasts, running gentle hands over her arms and flanks, soothing her as he would a skittish horse.

Raising his head, he stared into her eyes.

"I want you," he repeated, his words rumbling low and deep from his chest and his hips surged against hers.

She brushed her thumbs over his cheeks; this time she the one soothing him as she pushed a wayward lock of hair behind his ears.

"I be yours, Ross." Her shoulders moved in an elegant little shrug before she threw her arms out to the sides in open surrender and the smile she graced him with was somehow both inviting, yet shy.

He took her hands in his and guided them to the only item of clothing remaining between them. He braced himself above her and watched her slender fingers work on the fastenings of his breeches. She fumbled – once, twice – then flashed a triumphant smile when she succeeded in opening the row of buttons and together they pushed both breeches and undergarment down and away.

She bit her lip, looking up at him hesitantly before running the tips of her fingers along his hard and swollen length. She had never before taken the initiative to touch him and he fought for control and patience. Watching her curious exploration through hooded eyes, his groan was one of agonized pleasure.

"I need you. Now," he demanded and she nodded, her hands falling away to curl loosely on either side of her head. Mad for her, consumed with a primitive need to mate with her, he closed his mouth over hers, swallowing her cry of pleasure as joined his body to hers – a long, slow slide into her wet heat.

He watched her lashes flicker, saw her hands flex open and closed. Threading his fingers through hers, he drew their joined hands high above her head. Burying his face against her throat, he rasped the flat of his tongue over the pulse fluttering madly beneath her jaw.

She squirmed beneath him and he felt a smile tug his lips at her impatience. Raising his head, he freed one hand from hers, scraping tousled wisps of hair from her damp forehead and cheeks. He pushed forward and she arched her back, tipping her hips upward to draw him even deeper. They moved together, comfortable enough in their knowledge of the other's body to quickly find a rhythm meant to bring them both to pleasure.

And later, when he heard her gasp and felt her tighten around him; when he followed her moments later into his own near painful release, he collapsed into her waiting arms. Chest heaving, heart pounding and lacking the strength to roll off her, he shifted to relieve her of the full burden of his weight. Sliding down, he rested his head against her breasts, listening to the hammering of her pulse beneath his ear, long moments passing before it slowed to a steady beat.

Sated, her fingers traced idle patterns through his hair and over the broad span of his back and she hummed a quiet tune under her breath. His arms tightened around her and he turned his head enough to press a fierce kiss over her heart.

"Will you still not tell me what it 'tis that's bothering ye?"

He shook his head in automatic denial that anything was wrong.

"We can share this?" She tightened her arms and legs around him, "but not yer troubles?"

He lifted his head and met her sorrowful gaze with his own. Inclining his head in silent permission for her to ask, before lowering it again to its comfortable resting place.

"Is it the mine?"

"There's copper to be had – Henshawe is sure of it – but we've no money, nor creditors willing to lend more – to allow us to find it. We'll last two more weeks at best."

"Till the New Year," she sighed.

"What a sorry Christmas I've handed them." He turned his face into her soft bosom, his shoulders rising and falling in a painful sigh.

"No!" she protested. "You've handed them nearly twelve month of work they'd never have otherwise."

He absorbed her words with a shrug and stroked his thumb over her hip in an absentminded caress.

"I hope you won't live to regret your choice of husband."

"Why would I?"

Shame-faced, he raised his gaze to hers. "We may soon be destitute," he admitted.

"There are other kinds of treasure," she assured him with a quiet smile.

"I don't deserve you," he confessed, dropping his forehead to her breast.

She barked out a disbelieving laugh and tugged on his hair until he met her gaze with his own.

"What a strange thing t'say." Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. "I'm the girl you plucked out of a muddy street," she reminded him. "And now you be my husband?" She laughed again, incredulous. "I would have been happy to stay here as the kitchen maid for the rest of me life!" she exclaimed. "What have I done to deserve this?" She waved a hand about in a wide gesture. "This room is almost bigger 'n my father's house!"

"But you had no choice, Demelza. I took it from you when I took you to my bed. And now there's a very real chance that we could lose not just the mine, but Nampara as well. If I cannot pay off my father's debts…"

"And ye've been worrying all this time? I trust you," she said, her smile serene. "You're a good man, Ross Poldark. _A good man_ ," she repeated, cupping his face between her hands.

"I know ye'll always take care of me," she said fiercely, tears welling in her eyes. "You've nothin' to be going on feeling guilty about."

Overcome by her easy faith in him, he nodded and swallowed against the thick lump lodged in his throat, wondering if it could really be so simple a thing. Could they make a happy life together despite the manner in which they had come together?

"I will always try to take the very best care of you," he pledged.

"And I'll take care of you." She punctuated her vow with a decisive bob of her head and one tear spilled over her lashes to trail down her cheek. Pushing himself upward, he swiped a thumb over her damp cheek and tugged her into his strong arms. They rested in a shared embrace until the quiet was broken by a muffled rumble from his empty stomach.

Demelza laughed and sat up. Reaching for his discarded shirt, she tugged it over her head again.

"Perhaps I should start takin' care of ye now," she said with a saucy smirk. "By getting' ye something t'eat."

She belted her wrap around her waist and rounded the bed to stand before him. Holding out one hand, she tilted her head toward the door. He shoved his legs into his breeches and tugged a shirt over his head and accepting her hand, let her haul him from the bed. He crowded her up against the door and stole her breath away with a long, plundering kiss. Lifting his head, he grinned when she feigned swooning and shook her head as if it clear it. Tangling his fingers with hers, he followed her down the steps.

Sitting in their cozy kitchen, nibbling on toasted bread and sipping tea, he didn't know what their future held. But he knew in Demelza he had found not just a wife, but a partner to share it with.


End file.
